


Honeymoon

by WednesdayGilfillian



Series: I Can Dream, Can't I? [2]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Also Some Newlywed Cuteness, Alternate Universe, Discussion of Faith, F/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 09:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21354184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdayGilfillian/pseuds/WednesdayGilfillian
Summary: On their honeymoon, Patrick and Shelagh have a gentle, serious discussion.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Series: I Can Dream, Can't I? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539436
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> This was just something I wanted to write. Warm thanks to my betas @ginchy and @fourteen-teacups, for reading this over for me. <3

Patrick and Shelagh were married a week and a half before Christmas, which didn’t leave much time for a honeymoon. Even so, they hadn’t wanted to wait. They would have a week together in a quiet coastal town, and be back in Poplar in time for Shelagh to lead the choir at the Christmas Eve service. And, of course, to spend their first Christmas together with Timothy.

Patrick had made the arrangements, insisting that since she had planned so much of the wedding, the honeymoon should surely fall to him. He’d booked a suite in a quaint seaside hotel, which in Shelagh’s opinion was perfect. Not _too_ extravagant, but appropriate for the occasion.

It was only the next morning, when they woke, that they really appreciated the suite and their surroundings. (The night before, there had been more urgent considerations.)

It took Shelagh a while to get used to the freedom of their honeymoon schedule, having lived for so long regimented by the clock. Her days had once been divided by Matins and Compline, and more recently by choir practice and midwifery. But there was none of that, now. No need for them to rise by a certain hour. No precise need for them to rise _at all_, except that the hotel did a good hot breakfast. Having so much time to themselves felt terribly indulgent…but, Shelagh reminded herself, they would not have this time again.

On the third morning, with thin winter sunshine filtering through the window, Shelagh watched as her husband pottered about their suite. Following breakfast they’d had a slow start, and still couldn’t bring themselves to hurry – though they were surely wasting the best part of the day. The hotelier had given them a pile of brochures for local attractions, and Shelagh sat idly perusing them. Apparently there was a small local museum they ought to visit. She wasn’t truly paying the brochures much attention, however…

Patrick had just wandered past, adjusting his braces. He caught her looking at him and grinned. Impulsively, he took both her hands, pulling her up from her chair and bundling her against his chest. Shelagh smiled, letting her hands settle, one finger trailing the line of his braces. Her eyes lowered, she could feel his gaze upon her. Could feel him waiting for her to say what it was she’d been thinking. Now, as throughout their courtship, he was patient with her shyness – and pleased with her flashes of boldness, in turn.

“I…I like you in braces.” Shelagh blushed, but persisted. “I didn’t feel I could say that, before.” She didn’t need to clarify _‘before we were married’_. Patrick grinned curiously down at her, as though wondering what else she liked, and whether she’d be brave enough to tell him.  
“You can say anything you want to me.”  
She gave him a rueful, laughing smile. “Eventually, perhaps.”  
He grinned again thoughtfully in response, and bent so that his lips brushed her cheek.  
“On the other hand, you don’t _have_ to say anything at all…”

His lips moved to her ear, and then her neck, and Shelagh gave a breathy giggle. Realising he didn’t seem at all inclined to stop, she made a very half-hearted protest.  
“Patrick…Patrick,” she laughed, “it’s almost noon…”  
“_And_?”  
“Um…”

She was sure there’d been a self-explanatory conclusion to her sentence…but just now, she couldn’t quite think what it was. Evidently sensing that she needed only the slightest more convincing, Patrick murmured against her skin.  
“That museum’s closed on Fridays, anyway.”  
“Ah…” Shelagh slipped one of his braces off his shoulder. “Well, that settles it…”

\--

The next day, they had lunch at a restaurant overlooking the sea. On their way back, they stopped at the post office, and bought a postcard for Timothy. They had promised they would send one – though they’d tried to explain that they might arrive home before the card did.

(Timothy was staying for the week with Granny Parker, which he was very pleased about. Invariably, whenever he stayed, she stocked up on ice cream and jelly.)

Patrick hovered behind her as Shelagh wrote the postcard. (She had teased Patrick about his handwriting: “We want Tim to be able to read it!”) She was on the point of writing Granny Parker’s address and the date, when she realised she wasn’t quite sure what the date _was_. She had to turn around to check the calendar.

As they walked back towards the hotel, Shelagh mused in silence. She _was_ utterly, blissfully happy, there was no doubt about that… But she also found she felt a bit rudderless, with no schedule whatsoever to keep. She had barely been sure what day it was, which was not like her at all. And now, she realised, it was almost Sunday. That, she knew, was what would really help. She needed the grounding of a Sunday service. She also wanted very much to give thanks. But she didn’t have only her own choices to consider anymore.

What, Shelagh wondered, did normal couples do? Was it usual to attend church on one’s honeymoon? (And what _was _a ‘normal couple’, in any case? There was probably no such thing. Her work in midwifery ought to have taught her that much…) She didn’t want to abandon Patrick, during what was such a special time. She didn’t want to pressure him into joining her, either. Not if he didn’t want to. But her faith _was_ very much a significant part of who she was, and of course he knew that. Shelagh was sure he’d understand…the question was how to raise the subject.

She waited until late afternoon, when Patrick stood browsing their suite’s small bookshelf.  
“Patrick…?”  
He didn’t raise his eyes from the book he’d discovered. “Mmhmm…?”  
“I’d like to go to church tomorrow.” She smiled nervously as he looked up. “You’d be welcome to join me… Though of course I’ll understand if you’d rather not.”

She was aware that she was speaking slightly too quickly, in slightly too rehearsed a ‘casual’ tone. Patrick gave a smile just as deliberately ‘casual’ as hers, and closed his book.

Shelagh had told herself to expect a brief answer, a simple yes or no. (And probably the latter.) Probably a gentle _“I’d rather not”_.

“Of course I’ll join you,” Patrick replied, a little too lightly. “If you’d like me to. I probably won’t back at home… Or, not _every_ Sunday, at least. Depending on how busy things have been. But I’ll come,” he confirmed, apparently eager to make that overriding point clear.

Then his performed casualness fell away, and he shifted uncomfortably.  
“Just so long as…” Patrick frowned, apparently searching for the right words. “It wouldn’t seem…” He looked down at his feet, took a deep breath, and tried again. “It wouldn’t be…disingenuous, would it? For me just to come and sit beside you?”

She must have looked uncomprehending, because he carried on, his tone equal parts sincere and troubled.

“I wouldn’t want to do a disservice to your faith, or your sincerity… To the sincerity of either of us. But if it’s enough that I come and sit beside you, and just listen, then…”

She had not expected him to give the matter this level of thought. Then she wondered _why_ she hadn’t. Patrick had always been a deeply thoughtful man. Had she, perhaps, done a disservice to _him_, in making assumptions? Not intentionally…

Faced with his sincere discomfort, Shelagh floundered for a moment.  
“Patrick… Of course it… I said you were welcome to join me. But there’s no obligation.”

She gestured for him to come and sit beside her, and he did. His eyes remained averted, fixed on his folded hands, but they sat with bodies turned toward each other. Shelagh waited for him to speak. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so uncertain, or so vulnerable.

“Thank you.” He sighed, and eventually carried on. When he did, he spoke in fits and starts.  
“It’s just… You know I don’t believe everything that you do. Which isn’t to say I don’t believe in _anything at all_…or that I don't see worth or meaning in the life I live. I’m not even sure exactly… But I suppose, whatever else, I believe…that people are worth caring for, and working for.”

She had never seen him articulate this side of himself – and he clearly wasn’t used to it. He was struggling to find the words. Shelagh felt honoured, and deeply touched.

“I’m not saying that’s the same as having a religious conviction,” he added quickly, as though afraid of offending her. “I know it isn’t. I’m just trying to say…”

Patrick paused and pressed his lips together, his eyes raised to the ceiling. He was carefully weighing every word.

“I don’t think you and I approach the world from…diametrically opposed, or…at least not from _antagonistic_ positions. And I’d be sorry if you felt that we did.”

He sounded so resigned, so almost desolate that Shelagh’s heart ached. How long had he worried about this?

She thought he had finished, but – misreading her silence – Patrick spoke again.  
“I know there are differences, and they matter, but-”

She snatched up his hand in her own, which had the effect of stopping him mid-sentence. She knew there were things he’d likely never understand – but there was one thing he needed to understand immediately.

“I married you, Patrick. You may have noticed?”  
In a slightly desperate attempt at levity, she cast a pointed gaze around the suite; at their mingled clothes in open suitcases, and all the other evidence that they were very definitely married. She was relieved to see Patrick give a self-deprecating smile, before his expression once more became serious. She clasped his hand tighter in her own.

“And I married you because of who you are. _All_ of who you are. And…well, to be honest, you’ve caught me off guard, and right now I don’t know what else to say… Except that it’s clear that the _last_ thing you are is disingenuous. And I love you. So very much.”

She raised his hand to her lips, closing her eyes to kiss his knuckles. When she opened them again, he was looking at her with such naked relief and adoration that it would have been superfluous for him to say anything. He kissed her hand in turn, instead, and held it gently in the space between them.

“Well…” After a minute, Patrick cleared his throat, the clouds that had darkened his face clearing. He was trying for a casual tone again, but now it felt so much less forced than earlier.  
“Do you know _where_ you’d like to attend, tomorrow morning?”  
Shelagh blinked.  
“I hadn’t quite got that far. But there must be at least one Anglican church nearby-”

She paused as Patrick suddenly got to his feet, crossing the room to find the brochures the hotelier had given them. He flipped through the pile for a moment.  
“I’m sure I saw…yes! A pamphlet on local history and architecture. Which surely includes local churches.”  
Looking pleased, he held it out to her.  
“That should give us a place to start.”

There was so much more in that smile, and those words, than anyone but the two of them could have appreciated.

Smiling a little tremulously, Shelagh took the pamphlet from him. As she unfolded it, Patrick gazed down at her gently.  
“Shall I fetch us some tea?”  
Shelagh smiled again and nodded, then looked down at the pamphlet in her lap. She heard the door shut behind him as he departed.

She was grateful that the maid didn’t choose that moment to come in and change the towels. She would have found it difficult to explain why tourist brochures had her smiling, and also on the verge of tears.

\--

They went to church together the next morning. The baby boy in the pew in front of them kept trying to remove his mother’s hat – but when his attention wasn’t drawn by this adorable distraction, Patrick listened as attentively as anyone else.

Afterwards, they took a long walk out along the bay. The wind picked up, but once they had started, they didn’t want to turn back. Patrick insisted that Shelagh wear his overcoat. He went so far as to say that it ‘brought out her eyes’ – which was flat nonsense. She loved him for it regardless.

\--

On the last morning of their honeymoon, it seemed impossible to get out of bed. The winter sunlight on the suite’s cream walls was soft and gentle, not urging them into wakefulness at all.

“You know,” said Patrick, sleepily, in a tone of complete unconcern, “I don’t think we’re ever going to make it to that museum…”  
Shelagh chuckled, and nestled closer under his arm.  
“Perhaps it’s the thought that counts?”  
He smiled mischievously down at her.

“They’d have to have the Venus de Milo to make it worth leaving this bed.”  
He paused, then lifted the covers for a moment, and considered the sight thoughtfully.  
“Actually, no, even then…”  
“_Patrick_!” Shelagh laughed, with only the weakest attempt at disapproval. He knew her too well to be convinced by it.

And they didn’t have to check out of the suite until eleven.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very welcome.
> 
> Also, feel free to say hi on Tumblr: @wednesdaygilfillian


End file.
